


Once in a Great While

by JacquelineHyde



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 00:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacquelineHyde/pseuds/JacquelineHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the first time in their two years of marriage that Catelyn has seen her lord husband so affected by drink, and it is the rarity of the thing that allows her to enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once in a Great While

**Author's Note:**

> For the ASOIAF kink meme prompt: It's the first time she's seen Ned drink heavily, and even though she is very glad she does not have a drunk for a husband, Cat can't help loving how amorous and demonstrative too much liquor makes him.

Were this a common occurrence, Catelyn has no doubt that she would find it substantially less charming.   
  
Mercifully, the gods have not seen fit to curse her with a husband who drinks himself into a stupor each and every night, and so she can only guess at how she might react, but her imagination stretches far enough to suggest that it would not be happily.  
  
Instead, she has for a husband quiet, solemn Eddard Stark, who rarely takes more than a cup or two of wine in a single evening, waters it down when he does, and is just now swaying unsteadily in his seat from an amount that she suspects would be considered no more than a respectable start by many of the men in attendance tonight.  
  
It is the first time in their two years of marriage that Catelyn has seen her lord husband so affected by drink, and it is the rarity of the thing – and, she can admit, that she is far from unaffected herself – that allows her to enjoy it.  
  
Ned does not shout with laughter, or make bawdy japes, tell elaborate and largely fabricated tales, or dance every dance – which she thinks  _would_  horrify her, if only because she would wonder frantically if he had acquired a head injury that might put him at serious risk.  
  
But he has laughed more readily tonight – has laughed at all – and has spent much of the evening with a wide grin that stopped reminding her painfully of Brandon some hours ago, is now in her mind entirely his and utterly enchanting.   
  
Catelyn knows that it is foolish, and perhaps a little vain, but she cannot help but love how much he has watched her this evening. Even when he is deep in conversation, his attention entirely focused elsewhere, his eyes seem always drawn back to her as though by some unseen force.   
  
She has caught him watching her often before, when he thinks she does not notice, but tonight, rather than look quickly, sheepishly away when she catches him, he has held her eyes, his own lit with something that makes her reach for her cup more frequently than strictly wise, her mouth inexplicably dry.  
  
It is something she could easily grow tired of, if he spent so much time every night peeking down the front of her gown – though perhaps he does, and he is simply better at escaping her notice when he has not had so much to drink – but the novelty of her husband, who still takes such pains to avoid being too liberal with his attentions lest they be unwanted, looking her over with such open desire, is something that she can definitely enjoy,  _just this once_.  
  
He is much freer tonight in touching her than she has ever known him to be outside of her bedchamber: toying with the ends of her hair (left mostly loose with the suspicion that he would be pleased, a suspicion proven happily correct), clasping her fingers tightly to warm them (despite her assurances that she is quite warm), and running one hand idly up and down her leg beneath the table (and for the first time, he does not startle when she does the same).  
  
Drink or no, some things do not change, and when she tried her luck earlier and asked shyly if he would dance with her, he assured her that it was for the best that he not, particularly in this state, lest he do both of them, or their surroundings, lasting damage.  
  
When Benjen offered eagerly to take her instead, she agreed readily, despite a touch of reluctance to leave her husband's side, to lose the thrill of his eyes on hers for even a moment.  
  
She did  _not_  lose the thrill of his eyes on her, for even a moment. A quick peek over her shoulder, under the pretense of scanning the room to help Ben point out all the pretty girls in attendance, and she found Ned still watching her intently. While he has told her shyly that he thinks her hair very beautiful, and never seems to miss an opportunity to touch it when they are alone, she does not think it is the back of her head that so captured his attention, but an area substantially lower.  
  
And so it was less of a surprise than it might have been, when she returned to her seat next to him, and immediately he wound one hand gently into her hair, and pulled her close to kiss her.   
  
It was brief, and gentle, and very sweet – she has come to find all of his kisses sweet, and thinks that he does not know how to kiss her any way but gently – but hints broadly at the heat in his eyes when he watched her dance, and she had wished absurdly that she might open her eyes to find them, by some magic, transported to her chambers, where she might take full advantage of this rare mood of his.  
  
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said gravely as they pulled reluctantly apart. “You were so beautiful, I had to.”  
  
Each time she has returned since, he has done it again, a little less briefly each time, and this time she is laughing breathlessly as she pulls away.  
  
“My lord, I do not think anyone has forgotten that I am yours – you hardly need to keep proving it,” she teases, and abruptly he stills, stares at her so intensely that she shifts uneasily.  
  
“Ned, is something--”  
  
“Say it again,” he urges.  
  
She shakes her head, honestly bewildered.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Say it again. That you are mine.”  
  
She can feel a tremendous grin of her own tugging at her mouth, but is careful to keep her expression as neutral as possible as she leans in very close, and murmurs into his ear,  
  
“I am yours, my lord. How I wish that you could take me to bed this moment and take what is yours, again and again, until we are both too sore and weary to move.”   
  
Things happen very quickly after that. Almost before she realizes that he means to move, he is guiding her toward the door with an arm tight around her waist. He doubles back briefly to explain to his brother that she is feeling poorly, and he means to see her safely to bed, and if Ben wonders at this, or why Ned is very careful to keep her positioned enough in front of him to hide the hard length pressed against her hip, he says nothing.   
  
As he leads her out into the biting cold, Catelyn is already mapping out what she will tell him tomorrow to reassure him, for though he is still a mystery to her in many ways, she knows her husband well enough by now to be certain that he will agonize come morning about his actions tonight. She means to remind him that there are many worse things a man might get up to while drunk than exhibiting a fondness for his wife, at least as far as the wife in question is concerned. If that does not help to soothe his conscience, or at least make him smile, she will further remind him that there was far more ridiculous behaviour last night than his – he was simply in no position to notice, as it did not occur between her teats or anywhere in the vicinity of her ass.  
  
She remembers little of that walk to her bedchamber, though her fingers must be more nimble than her mind, for by the time he backs her into the door, the laces of his breeches have become loose enough for her to slip her hand inside to grip his cock. He groans into the flushed skin of her neck and shoulder as she works him slowly. She meets his eyes, filled with a glazed look that she has come to know quite well, and she wonders, astonished, if he means to let her finish him here, where anyone might happen by. Somewhere in the distant corners of her mind, she is ashamed of the sharp flare of heat the thought sends through her, of the moan she hasn't the presence of mind to muffle. The soft sound seems to jolt him back to awareness of precisely where he is, and he pushes her hands away with a gentleness at odds with the force with which he immediately after wrenches open the door at her back.  
  
They stumble together into the room, and she cannot help a delighted smile as he shoulders the door closed and then pushes her back into it. He tugs her gown down off her shoulders (and when he manage to sufficiently loosen  _that_? Clearly  _his_  fingers are more nimble than her mind tonight, too), and she clutches at his hair as he dips his head, hand splayed across her back to push her closer, and draws one nipple into his mouth.  
  
She wriggles her hand between them to cup him through his breeches, squeezing and stroking in a steady rhythm, and he gasps hotly against her breast, seizing her skirts in great handfuls and hauling them up past her waist, tucking them into her hands as he tugs down her smallclothes.  
  
Once he has helped her step free of the offending garment, he pushes one hand back into her hair, the other working between her legs, his lips crushed against hers, swallowing her gasps and cries. She hears the faint rustle of fabric as he shoves his breeches down to his knees, and then he is lifting her, hands at the backs of her thighs. She expects him to carry her to the bed, and yelps in surprise when he pushes her harder back against the door, his cock prodding insistently where she is wet and aching for him.   
  
Immediately, he sets her down – she barely manages to muffle a moan of disapproval – and watches her uncertainly.  
  
“Would you rather...” He trails off, gesturing to the perfectly serviceable bed no more than a dozen steps away.   
  
She shakes her head vehemently.  
  
“It is only that we have never done it that way before. I would like to,” she continues quickly, peeking up at him hopefully, for she already loves the sensation of being pinned tightly between the door and the solid, muscled weight of his body, and for as long as she can recall, she has always eagerly embraced new experiences of all kinds. The ones that occur with Ned, in this room, have simply become her favourites. “Though it is a little strange, that you did not put enough trust in your coordination to share a dance with your lady wife, but you trust it sufficiently to take her while balanced precariously against a wall.”  
  
The instant the words escape her, she winces, for she fears that he might hear a reproach, hear an accusation of taking too little care with her safety, and she might have to wait for this particular  _new experience_  until the next time she can arrange to have him drunk and a little reckless. But he merely laughs, a low chuckle that hums through her.  
  
“Perhaps it because when I make a misstep in this particular dance, there is little chance that it is being observed by a hall filled with onlookers.”  
  
His words catch her by surprise, and her answering laugh is a little louder than she had intended in the quiet room. He does not seem to mind, something warm and affectionate lighting his eyes as he brushes his thumb lightly over her cheek.  
  
“I will not let you fall, my lady.”  
  
“I am glad to hear it.” And she pulls him close and kisses him, twining one leg around his.  
  
His hands find her thighs again and lift her, pressing her tightly back into the door, and guiding her legs to wrap around his waist, his mouth never leaving her as he does so, only moving from her lips to her cheek, to swirl mercilessly over the shell of her ear, so that by the time he takes himself in hand and teases gently through her folds, she is begging and finally  _ordering_  him to take her.  
  
Immediately, he readjusts his hold and pushes into her, letting her drop just a little at the same time, and she cries out loudly. He freezes, his face almost comically alarmed.  
  
“Stop?”  
  
“No!” she near-wails, grinding her hips gracelessly into his and tightening her legs around him.  
  
With a quick nod of understanding, he begins to move again. Her back thumps against the door with every thrust, but the impact only seem to add to the fiercely burning ache of need. Threading her fingers back into his hair, she tugs his mouth back to hers, and those kisses are hot and wet and hungry, and she cannot imagine why she would ever want to stop kissing him. And then her entire body tenses, the waves of pleasure stealing her breath until she can do nothing but let her head fall back against the door, gasp noiselessly and cling tightly to him.   
  
He slows until he is barely moving inside her, brushing his lips over her forehead as she catches her breath, but she can feel the tremble of weariness in his arms, the tremble of need in his thighs, and once again she rolls her hips against his, coaxing him to continue, to find his pleasure.   
  
He does not require _much_ coaxing before he is moving again, filling her in quick, hard strokes, his rapid breaths stirring her hair. Her mouth finds his ear, and she nips lightly, murmurs words of endearment and pleasure, until he grips her harder and then shudders in her arms with a shaky groan.  
  
Once he has recovered, he sets her down carefully, and she shivers at the sensation as his softening cock slips from her. Immediately, he is searching her face, concerned.  
  
“You are cold, my lady. I must see you safely to your bed and stay until you are warm again.”  
  
Such a thing, it seems, involves pulling eagerly at her clothes, carrying her to bed, and and laying her down, rather puzzlingly on top of the blankets and furs, and stopping her when she moves to climb under them. As he stretches out beside her, his hands and mouth move over her bare skin, and she wonders if perhaps he is feeling a little cheated, that when he had her tonight he did not have her naked, and is willing to reorder things to make up for it now.  
  
She cannot help a tiny pang of regret, that they have already done  _that_  tonight, for the slow slide of his mouth down her throat, over her breasts, his tongue tracing the line of her hipbone, the languid movement of his fingers inside her, are making her ache for him even more fiercely than she did earlier this evening. But he has never taken her more than once in a single night, and somehow, she cannot imagine that this night, when they will both doubtless soon become drowsy from the wine and strong beer they have enjoyed, will be the one to see that change. He does not seem to intend more than to touch her, at any rate, his caresses speaking far more of enjoying the feel of her skin than an attempt to stir her to lust again, regardless of how effectively he has accomplished the latter.  
  
And yet, as he kisses his way back up her body, notes with a breathless laugh that she seems much warmer now, she can feel him hardening again at her hip, and dares to hope that this is to be another one of the many firsts that the evening has already offered, each more intriguing, endearing, exciting than the last. Determined to try her luck for a second time this evening, she pulls him close until he comes to lie over her.  
  
It seems that she will be met with far more success this time, for when she slides her hands up under his shirt, humming contentedly at the warmth of his skin, he pulls away and undresses more quickly than she has ever seen him.  
  
It is just as well that he declined her earlier request, she thinks, smothering the giggle that rises at the thought, for if she must choose she would much rather share this with her husband than a dance, and as he pushes her legs apart, she decides that while it certainly would not do for it to happen terribly often, there can be little harm in seeing to it that every once in a great while, her lord husband has too much to drink.


End file.
